


rip and tear

by WolffyLuna



Series: Finrod's werewolf kink [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fantasized Guro, Fantasizing, Gore, Guro, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predator/Prey, Sexual Fantasy, Shame, imaginary snuff, re-embodiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Why was he doing this?He’d been mauled. He’d been actually mauled by actual werewolves, it was in no way arousing—but some part of him, some part of him that I couldn’t quite fathom— was deeply convinced it was.Finrod fantasises about werewolves--about being mauled and consumed and destroyed....he'd rather he didn't, but such is life.





	rip and tear

_Yellow and pink teeth snapped in Finrod’s face—yellow with rot and pink with his blood. The werewolf pinned him, spreading its bulk all across him, its coarse fur scratching and leaving red welts across his skin._

_His skin prickled in the hot and cold—hot from the heat of the werewolf, cold with his sweat and the werewolf’s spit—and hot from his blood. He couldn’t see it—his whole view was obscured by a massive maw—but it ran down his back, pooled in his bedclothes. He shivered. From cold or blood loss—well, who could tell?_

_The wolf licked his ear, leaving thick ropes of saliva that dripped down along his cheek. It was somewhere between a parody of affection, and tasting his skin._

_Finrod shivered for a different reason. Cold or blood loss would have made_ sense _, would have been_ reasonable _—but when did these matters bow to sense or reason?_ Tension pooled in his belly, along his pelvis. _He shouldn’t be aroused—but it mixed and melded with the fear coursing through him, as the wolf snuffled along his hair._

_The wolf shifted its weight, stood up on top of his back. The pressure dug into him, drove him further into the bed, claws scraping for purchase._

_It sniffed his neck, warm breath flowing across his skin. It pressed its nose closer—evaluating him, evaluating that spot. Evaluating how much it would hurt to bite._

“No, no, please—“ Finrod pleaded, muffled by the pillow.

_It wouldn’t pay attention, it was a werewolf—or worse, it would pay the wrong type of attention, take the begging as a direction about how to best harm him—but he couldn’t stop himself._

Even with the fear, even with the anticipation of pain—his cock was hard. _Hard and pressed flat against his stomach by the weight of the wolf._

_It bit down on his neck. Teeth pierced soft flesh, and blood welled out of the wounds, welled into its open mouth. It paused. It paused for just long enough for the pain to build until it was unbearable, until Finrod tried to struggle away, pinned as he was—_

_And then it ripped. It lifted its head, and ripped the skin and flesh of his neck. He screamed. He didn’t know how he could, or how long until he couldn’t, until he had no lifeblood left. His flesh was still attached to his neck, and the wolf pulled, pulled more skin off his neck, off his shoulder. The pain was more than unbearable, he had no way to process it, it built and built until he couldn’t stand it, it hurt so much, and it felt so good—_

He fisted his cock with just a hair too much pressure, and fell out of his thoughts.

He pushed himself off of the pillows. _Why was he_ doing _this?_ He’d been mauled. He’d been actually mauled by actual werewolves, it was in no way arousing—but some part of him, some part of him that I couldn’t quite fathom— was deeply convinced it was.

The pain, being treated as a meat, being consumed utterly piece-by-agonising-piece—all in the safety of his own mind, where he couldn’t die, where no pain could be too great —it was thrilling. Undeniably.

It shouldn’t be. He should be aroused by soft touch, the inherent eroticism of the quendi form—even feet would make more sense. Not the minions of Sauron. That was just—no. It was not how it was _meant_ to work.

He was re-embodied, he was healed—and that meant he should have had no scars, literal or metaphorical.

But, well, that patently wasn’t true, was it?

His hand still clenched around his cock, and it still stood hard against his stomach.

This was stupid, this wasn’t how it was supposed to work—but he couldn’t say it was wrong. ‘Strange shaped’, yes. ‘Embarrassing’ was also closer.

There was no _actual_ reason for him to stop.

Pre-cum leaked from his cock-head, and he started stroking himself. He drove his head into the pillow, to block sight, to better imagine it.  

 _The werewolf returned_. No, not just one. _A whole pack_ , _that covered the bed in a writhing mass of flesh and fur. Enough to not just pin him, but to completely entrap him._

He smiled, and had to put a hand over his mouth to stop it, to stay properly in character (because the fear and pain and—lack-of-desire were important, integral to thing, in a way that he couldn’t quite pull into words.)

_They snuffled at him, pressing their wet noses against his flesh. It wasn’t painful, not yet—but the anticipation raced through his veins, tightened his back. They weren’t making pain yet—but they heralded pain to come._

_One nipped at his buttocks, piercing the flesh, drawing perfectly circular wells of blood._

Finrod yelped.

 _The werewolves barked—but it was more of a laugh than the exclamation of a dog. They were no mere beasts, they had a sense of humour, as twisted as it was. They could find his pain_ amusing _. Something worthy of mocking laughter pushed through malformed throats._

Finrod flushed, and buried his face further into the pillows _, to hide his shame._

_One of the werewolves climbed over the mass, climbed onto Finrod’s back. Its claws left scratches as it walked—scratches layering with previous scratches, scratched on scratches—and drove him into the bed._

_It laughed, and bit into his shoulder, where the flesh was already torn._

He screamed.

_The other werewolves laughed, and bit him. Bit him everywhere that was exposed, became a frenzy of teeth and claws._

_His scapula cracked under the jaws of a werewolf, as it chewed on him._

_Another wolf stuffed it muzzle in-between Finrod, and bit into his belly. It bit through the flesh, through skin and muscle, and swallowed._

_Finrod’s intestines slithered towards the hole. Only the bed, and how he was pressed against it, kept them inside him._

_The bites turned from piercing to tearing. Tearing great stripes of muscle off his thighs. Tearing holes in his back, along his rib cage, till his lungs turned cold in the open air. Tearing the flesh off his cheek, so close to taking off the rest of his face (taking everything, taking his personhood) with it._

_They ripped and tore him—ripped him piece by screaming piece. They licked the blood off him with rough tongues, till they stripped the first layer of skin off, then the second. They licked his organs, stuffing their entire snouts into the holes they ripped, sniffing and chewing and consuming as he screamed._

_They ripped and tore at him until he was dead, until he was naught but a mangled carcass, just the few bones that they could not eat—_

The tension running through him reached a peak, until there was no denying it. Nothing could stop it, as it burst through him. He screamed with a torn throat as he came, come spilling over his hand and onto the bed, as the imagined werewolves faded away.

He collapsed on the bed, panting. The wet spot under him grew cold, but he didn’t have the strength to move away from it. He pushed his sweat-stuck hair off his forehead.

Werewolves. _Werewolves._ Why did it have to be werewolves? When did mauling become arousing? He’d been mauled—it wasn’t pleasant!

He buried his face in the pillow. He was too blissed out to psychoanalyse himself, or feel stupid. He had time for that later, anyway. He was going to enjoy this—even if it was patently off and weird and grotesque—and rather fun, on some level.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I feel like I should mention this: there was, at one point, a second part, featuring Finrod/Curufin werewolf roleplay--which unfortunately didn't quite gel with the themes. (I know. My porn has developed themes. Somehow. Please send help.) But if people are interested, I can clean it up and make it the second part of series that includes this.


End file.
